Saturday, 28 December 2013

We always have our Christmas meal in the evening, which puts a lot of stress on breakfast being substantial enough to see us through most of the day. Obviously with many mince pies, lots of chocolate, and a few nibbles of smoked salmon and glasses of bubbles to help us along the way. Rather than the usual problem of mum and I with our sweet teeth not fancying ham and eggs as soon as we've crawled out of bed, I was told that we were going to be having an Ottolenghi breakfast. Never one for simplicity, it was to be a decadent breakfast of gilled banana bread with tahini, honeycomb and sea salt. Thank you Waitrose Magazine. Ham and eggs no longer seemed such a treat. I could sense food envy vibes coming from the male side of the table.

I spent almost all of Christmas Eve in the kitchen, baking away, happy as can be. Carols from King's in the background and a little Christmas tree in the corner, the festive feeling finally arrived. As soon as the nibbles for the evening were done, I was removed from my position in front of the oven as mum decided it was her turn in her kitchen (fair enough, I suppose). She got to work on the banana bread.

Sliced and grilled on Christmas morning, the perfect loaf was drizzled with earthy, silky tahini, sweet and flowery honeycomb (thank you Steve from the London Honey Co!) crushed on top, and a small sprinkling of sea salt providing a subtle contrast and snowflake-like decoration. The sun pouring in the windows, a perfect Americano on the side. This was the way to start Christmas day. Although I have to say the Ham and Eggs (or M n X as we call it in this house, thanks to the Two Ronnies), didn't look half bad either.

Tuesday, 24 December 2013

It nearly became a sad Friday as our much looked forward-to drinks with my Godmother at a fancy-pants London hotel had been cancelled mid-morning because she was ill. Cursing illnesses I got in touch with B in a slight state of panic.

Dinner at Tonkotsu East was to be the replacement. And a good (although very different) replacement it was too.

As much bare-bricks, industrial pipework, and old-school furniture as one would expect from a Hackney restaurant-in-an-arch. I feel there should be a term for this, so oft are they appearing around and about. No street-cred if you're not in an arch. Instant brownie points if you are. We sat down at the 'bar', which isn't really a bar but a line of chairs and tables that look at a wall, not high enough up to see into the kitchen. As cooking obsessed as B and I are, we always love being able to watch the chefs at play, so it was a slight shame not to be able to peek in. However, watching the action in the 'noodle room' at the other end of this space more than made up for it. A Japanese noodle-making machine. In Haggerston. In a glass box. Beats our pasta machine hands down. A chef sits patiently, catching the freshly-produced noodles and taking them into the kitchen. No doubts about how good these noodles were going to be.

Anyway, back to the meal, and less of my oggling of the industrial equipment.

Cocktails (both whiskey based - a new phase - move over pasta, move in whiskey) were ordered. Took slightly too long to arrive (but the waitress was aware and was chasing the clearly very doolally barman without us having to chase her. Worth the wait, they were warming and soothing. With just the right strength to to take the edge of a long week. And potent enough to mark the beginning of the holidays for B (no jealousy here at all, promise).

Edameme covered in crispy sea salt, and then pork gyoza were both perfect. The little dumplings crisped on one side, dipped in a tad of soy sauce, and filled with tiny nibblets of pork. Yum.

Tonkotsu and Tsukemen ramen followed. 'A lesson in broth' in B's words. One rich, meaty, yet still clean; the other miso based, salty and gentle - both perfectly balanced and suitably powerful. The noodles, as expected, were unlike any other noodle. A visit to Wagamama will never again satisfy in the same way. Not a huuuuge pork eater, B ate most of my meat. His faith in pork (sausages and bacon excepted) had been removed by school dinners and college canteens, but here was finally restored to its rightful place. A blossoming relationship which saw a trip to the butchers to buy pork chops for dinner the next day. We slurped away until the bowls were empty. Warmed from the inside, calming ramen swirling in our stomachs, we braced the cold for a quick, blustery walk home - an early, nourishing and restful Friday night.

About Me

I'm Hannah, a twenty-something Londoner who's found herself living in the Big Apple. Flicking through these pages, you'll be able to follow my journey of baking, cooking, eating and living in the magical city that is NYC.